Welcome back to the palace

Sometimes I wondered if pain left a residue—if enough bruises and broken bones could become something like armor, thickening under your skin until you hardly felt the blows anymore.

After years with Malvoria, I was certain of it. The first thing I did after the boss delivered the king's summons was to escape into the one place nobody dared interrupt: the showers.

The water was scalding, as I liked it, beating against my battered muscles and tracing new paths over old scars.

I stood under the stream, watching rivulets of red and gold hair snake across my shoulders, feeling the ink of my tattoos burn as the heat soaked in.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I was fifteen again—lost, angry, half-feral. But my hands were too big now, my jaw too sharp. Even the shape of my shadow had changed.

The palace. Isolde. The words echoed in my skull, sticky and sharp.

I hadn't thought about her, not really, for years. When I left, I swore I'd forget. And I had. Mostly.

Now, out of nowhere, the king wanted me back in the palace—guarding the one person who'd ever gotten under my skin in ways I couldn't explain. The only one who'd seen the worst in me and pushed harder anyway.

I turned off the water, cold air stinging my skin. Ice Queen, the rumors said. Untouchable. Cruel. A beauty of frost and steel.

The last time I'd seen her, she was still the princess who tried to run away from everything—especially from me.

I toweled off, combed my hair with fingers still scarred and calloused, and dressed in my best uniform: black tailored pants, a shirt of fine linen, and the cloak with the knight's insignia that marked me as one of Malvoria's own.

My rings gleamed on my left hand. They felt like medals and shackles both.

Packing was easy. I owned little: swords, boots, spare shirts, a battered book, and a polished stone for luck. Everything else was earned or etched in my skin.

But I wasn't about to leave without a proper farewell. Whatever waited at the palace, it could wait until after lunch.

The mess hall buzzed with voices and the smell of roast meat, baking bread, and strong tea.

I took my usual place at the long table, nodding at the familiar faces—some battered, some new, all changed by this place.

Malvoria sat at the head, already into her second helping. Across from her, a half-elf knight argued with an orc over whose squad had the higher injury rate.

Someone down the row whistled when I walked in. I ignored them, grabbing a tray and piling it high. I'd need the calories.

As I sat, the noise settled into something almost warm. The usual jeering, the little jokes that only made sense after years of fighting together. This was my family—mean, loud, loyal to the bone.

"So, Skyblade." It was Lessa, a wiry woman with burns up both arms and a wicked sense of humor. "You off to play hero for the palace brats?"

I smirked, slicing into my meat. "Not a brat. Just one princess. Apparently, she's been burning through bodyguards faster than Malvoria burns through new recruits."

A few heads turned. Talk about Isolde always drew attention. She was a legend in her own right—more feared for her attitude than her magic, if the stories were true.

"Didn't her last bodyguard nearly lose a hand?" someone asked, eyes wide.

"Lost his mind first, I heard," said another, a new recruit. "Walked out muttering about ice and death and never looked back."

Malvoria chuckled, shaking her head. "That girl's trouble. You sure you're ready for it, Lyra?"

I chewed thoughtfully. "If you're scared of dying, you shouldn't train with Malvoria, that's all. And if you can survive her, a princess can't be so bad."

The table erupted with laughter—gruff, genuine, edged with respect. A few pounded the table in agreement. Lessa leaned in, eyes bright. "You planning to come back, or are we losing you to palace life forever?"

I grinned, raising my mug. "Give me a week and I'll be bored out of my skull. Save me a seat."

There was something comforting about their faith in me, however much they masked it with jokes and insults. In this place, everything was earned. 

Malvoria, for her part, studied me over the rim of her cup. "Don't let her get under your skin," she warned, her voice oddly gentle. "That's how she wins. She freezes you out, and then you're just another statue in her garden."

I shrugged, but I heard the warning under her words. I'd spent years becoming immune to pain, to loneliness. If Isolde was colder than the north wind, that was her problem.

As the meal wound down, the table grew quieter, conversation drifting into private goodbyes. Malvoria clapped me on the shoulder—hard, affectionate, her own brand of blessing. "Make us proud, Skyblade. Or at least don't embarrass us."

I snorted, grabbing my pack and slinging it over my shoulder. "You know me. I'll be a menace wherever I go."

"Good." She held my gaze a moment longer, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "Send word if you need backup."

I managed a small, real smile. "Thanks, Malvoria. For everything."

She just nodded, waving me off with mock impatience.

I made my way to the main gates, boots echoing down the corridor, my pack slung over one shoulder and my swords at my hip.

The knight's carriage waited outside, gleaming black, with the capital's sigil emblazoned on the door. Two horses pawed the ground, eager for the road.

The driver—a grizzled veteran I'd seen on more than one battlefield—nodded in greeting. "You ready, Skyblade?"

"As I'll ever be," I replied, tossing my things into the carriage and climbing in after.

The city slid past in a blur of towers and banners, the street vendors hawking roasted chestnuts and sweet cakes, the children darting between carriages with wide eyes.

At the gates, the guards saluted, and we rolled out into the open road.

It had been six years since I'd last seen the palace. 

I was a knight now, with scars and tattoos and stories enough to fill a book. But I was going back as a protector—not a shadow or a liability.

It was a strange feeling, sharp with anticipation and something like dread.

As the carriage sped on, I let myself remember the last time I'd seen Isolde—tangled on her floor, our bodies pressed together by accident, the heat in her eyes, the way she'd spat my name like a curse and a challenge both.

She was a princess then, stubborn and reckless. Now they called her the Ice Queen, and if the rumors were true, she'd only grown colder and more ruthless.

Every bodyguard had quit, the knights had said. She doesn't care if they die. I'd heard worse threats. I'd survived worse, too.

If she tried to freeze me out, I'd burn twice as bright.

The road wound through the countryside, the autumn leaves flashing red and gold, the sky vast and merciless overhead.

By the time the towers of the palace rose against the horizon, the sun was dipping low, casting the world in the golden light that made everything seem both older and newer at once.

As we neared the palace gates, I saw banners flying—white and blue and gold, the royal sigil everywhere. Crowds pressed close, held back by guards in full regalia.

The air vibrated with excitement, voices rising in anticipation. Today, I remembered, was the day of Isolde's coming-of-age ceremony.

The carriage rolled through the gates, past lines of saluting guards. The palace itself looked unchanged—grand, imposing, more like a legend than a home. But the people felt different: more cautious, more reverent, more wary.

I took a deep breath as the carriage slowed, the sound of hooves echoing on the cobblestones. The driver opened the door and gestured for me to step out.

"Welcome back to the palace, Lyra Skyblade," he said, formal as any courtier.

I squared my shoulders, smoothing my cloak, and walked up the marble steps, my boots ringing on stone, every eye turning to watch.

Above the doors, banners snapped in the breeze, and I could hear the distant music of the ceremony—the song of a kingdom on the edge of change.

Isolde. The Ice Queen. My new charge. My old enemy.

Ready or not, I was home.